Shades of Green
by Imadra Blue
Summary: Neither shall a Jedi covet, for nothing shall belong to him. He shall not want what is not needed, and he shall release his desire into the Force, as if it had never existed. Gen, with insignificant moment of pre-slash.


**Characters:** Obi-Wan Kenobi, Anakin Skywalker, Qui-Gon Jinn  
**Disclaimer:** Star Wars and all its characters are property of Lucasfilm Ltd. No copyright infringement is intended.  
**Author's Notes:** Written for Fanfic 100, Prompt: _072. Fixed._ Many thanks to Luthe for beta reading.

. . .

Obi-Wan Kenobi is a better mechanic than most other Padawans. Every time Qui-Gon breaks something, Obi-Wan often wonders if Qui-Gon chose to apprentice him merely so he can repair holoplayers.

When Obi-Wan turns thirteen, he is already one of the best mechanics in the Jedi Order. The Gearsmaster often complains that Qui-Gon stole her rightful apprentice. Obi-Wan watches her dark hair sway down her back as she argues with Qui-Gon, wondering if he would be happier as her apprentice. Then Qui-Gon laughs and walks away, saying that Obi-Wan is meant for greater things than repairing the Temple speeders, and Obi-Wan hurries after him.

Obi-Wan does not enjoy repairing broken consoles and speeder engines. The Force feels cold as it flows through his fingertips and teaches him how to work metal and spinning parts. There is nothing natural about splicing electrowires together or tuning up a hyperdrive.

"Are machines part of the dark side, Master?" Obi-Wan asks one day, his fingers aching from screwing together the tiny pieces of Qui-Gon's broken communicator. He sits in front of the low table of their common room. Around him, an ugly field of metallic parts mars his otherwise serene surroundings.

Qui-Gon does not look up from the snapping Verusian houseplant he feeds. "No. They are simply dead, bereft of the living Force. It takes a powerful Jedi who understands the unified Force to manipulate them."

"Is that why you break machines and cannot fix them?"

Qui-Gon smiles a little and meets Obi-Wan's gaze. In the sunlight pouring into their common room, his eyes look more green than blue. "I have other gifts."

But Obi-Wan has no gifts. Obi-Wan knows that he is actually not a very good mechanic at all. Though he knows where all the pieces the fit, he cannot truly understand the machines he touches. He only understands their names and functions. He cannot create them or invent them. Obi-Wan repairs what is broken, no more and no less.

Despite the Gearsmaster's claims to the contrary, Obi-Wan does not belong with her. Nor does he belong with Qui-Gon, a Master of the living Force. Obi-Wan connects with the unified Force, but only Yoda has Mastered it, and ever since his last apprentice left the Order, Yoda no longer accepts Padawan learners.

. . .

When Qui-Gon lets him pilot his first starship, Obi-Wan freezes, but not with the cold of a wintry day on the mountains of Alderaan or even the cold of space—what permeates his being is the cold of the grave, of mausoleums long abandoned, of ghostly voices echoing in stone halls. It takes Qui-Gon's gentle touch on his shoulder for him to remember to maneuver the ship. After that, Obi-Wan proves as adept a pilot as he is a mechanic. He understands the coordinates, exactly how to tilt the wheel, when to gun the engine, but he cannot operate outside of the parameters taught to him.

At fifteen, Obi-Wan completes his lightsaber. He executes his lightsaber katas flawlessly now, every maneuver perfectly balanced. Qui-Gon tells him that he is too stiff, though Master Windu tells him that he displays control that few Jedi Masters ever possess. Yet, Obi-Wan struggles with every mock duel. Qui-Gon snaps a sizzling blade out at him, completely outside of form, and Obi-Wan cannot block in time. As Stass Allie spreads burn salve over Obi-Wan's singed thighs, she promises Obi-Wan that one day he will master the lightsaber as well as Cin Drallig.

Jedi highly prize mechanical skills, as few qualify for the position of Gearsmaster. Jedi pilots as skilled as Plo Koon are equally rare. Less than five percent of Jedi master the lightsaber arts. Jedi gifts run to healing and empathy, to diplomacy and philosophy, to art and history. When Yoda meditates with Obi-Wan, he says that Obi-Wan is an extraordinary Padawan, able to do the things that most Jedi cannot.

Obi-Wan sits alone in his bedroom at night, staring out of his darkened window without seeing. He thinks only of how he cannot paint or dance or heal or create. No Master can claim him as their rightful apprentice. Even Master Windu can see beyond the forms, his creativity on display every time he turns on his violet lightsaber. Qui-Gon tells Obi-Wan that his gifts are determined by the will of the Force, and Obi-Wan wonders why the Force is so cruel.

. . .

Sometimes Obi-Wan thinks that he is meant to be Qui-Gon's apprentice, that he will be a great Jedi Master, too. Then Qui-Gon shoves something furry into Obi-Wan's arms and tells him to feed it before leaving to attend other business. While Qui-Gon does great things across the galaxy, Obi-Wan feeds snare-crackle to Qui-Gon's creatures and hopes their teeth are not sharp.

Obi-Wan never knows what to feel for Qui-Gon's pets, small beings often forgotten halfway during a mission. They slobber and often require Obi-Wan to chase after them. Even when Qui-Gon happens to adopt a sapient being, it inevitably requires constant care as well. There is a helpless quality to all of Qui-Gon's foundlings, a desperate hunger that lurks in all of them. When Obi-Wan combs his hair in the morning, he scrutinizes his face to see if he looks as pathetic.

When Qui-Gon brings him the Chosen One, Obi-Wan sees nothing but a little boy, blue eyes bright, face smudged with dirt, clothes naught but rags. Unlike the rest of Qui-Gon's foundlings, Anakin doesn't require Obi-Wan's care, for Qui-Gon does not forget this one.

Instead, he forgets Obi-Wan.

. . .

Obi-Wan is not surprised that Qui-Gon asked him to train Anakin. He always cared for Qui-Gon's pets, so why should this one be any different? What surprises him is that he wants to care for Anakin so badly that his pulse quickens at the thought. Qui-Gon's last wish gives him a purpose he never possessed before.

"This is your new room," Obi-Wan tells Anakin as he leads the boy into his old bedroom. Obi-Wan will move to Qui-Gon's room, but he knows he will not sleep on the bed for a long time.

Anakin snuffles and looks around, rubbing a stubborn dirt smudge on his cheek. The room's cream-colored walls practically shine in the afternoon light. Obi-Wan made the bed himself that morning. He even found extra blankets so Anakin would not be cold at night.

"It's sort of small, isn't it?" Anakin says.

Obi-Wan blinks. Anakin was a slave—surely the Jedi Temple is bigger than anything he once lived in. "What do you mean?"

"I thought Jedi lived in a golden palace with water fountains in every room. I thought it'd be bigger." Anakin scrunches up his face. "Or that at least there might be more pillows."

"The room is plenty big enough for a boy your size," Obi-Wan snaps. "I lived in here until recently."

"But what about all the gold and the water that Jira told me was here?"

"Jedi do not live in excess. You'll find that sort of nonsense at 500 Republica."

Anakin's eyes narrow. He angers as quickly as Yoda warned he would. "Are you calling Jira a liar?"

"I didn't call Jira anything." Obi-Wan breathes, in and out, in and out. He will not let his anger get the best of him, as it did when Maul struck down Qui-Gon. "I would think you'd be grateful for what you're given. A nice, clean room of a respectable size."

"My mother's house was plenty clean!" Anakin balls up his fists.

"I never said it wasn't."

"Yes, you did! You just made it seem like I should be happy just because I get to move into your stupid, tiny room instead of living in a filthy hovel!"

Obi-Wan turns away. "Happy or not, I hope you like the room. You'll be staying in here a while." He leaves the room, and on his way out, he seals the door behind him.

. . .

When Obi-Wan realizes that Qui-Gon somehow managed to put the cooling unit out of service before they left for Naboo, he sits down in front of it and presses the heels of his palms to his eyes. Qui-Gon will never break a machine and leave it for Obi-Wan to fix again.

The repairs go slowly. Obi-Wan's eyes sting and his vision blurs. His hands tremble as he reconnects the electrowires, and several times, he nearly electrocutes himself. When the cooling unit's motor sparks at him for the eighth time, Obi-Wan sits back and sighs.

"I can help you with that. I can fix anything."

Obi-Wan quickly wipes his face and stares at Anakin. "How did you get out of your room?"

Anakin shrugs and sits down next to Obi-Wan. "I'm not sure exactly. I'm hungry and wanted to get out, and the door opened." He thrusts his chin at the cooling unit. "That model isn't so different from the one I found Jira. Just newer."

"If you can fix it, then I won't pick you up by your trousers and toss you back in your room."

Anakin does not seem terribly impressed with Obi-Wan's implied threat, but he leans forward to examine the cooling unit's motor. With three quick presses of his fingers, it hums back to life. Anakin replaces the cover and closes the door. "I guess since the cooling unit was broken, this means there's no food for dinner?"

Obi-Wan heard that Anakin is an amazing pilot and a mechanic, but now he knows. Not even the Gearsmaster can fix things so quickly. He examines Anakin's face and notices a trail of clean skin through the smudge of dirt on Anakin's cheek. When Obi-Wan runs his finger down Anakin's face, the cheeks feel wet.

Anakin draws back from Obi-Wan's touch, his brows furrowing. "What'd you do that for?"

Obi-Wan shrugs.

"Isn't there anything to eat?" Anakin asks after a moment. "My tummy hurts."

"We can go down to the cafeteria."

"Okay, let's do that." Anakin springs to his feet and pulls Obi-Wan up with surprising strength. "I guess there's not an endless supply of chocolate snapcakes and ice cold water in the Temple, either?"

Obi-Wan's lips twitch. "There's water enough if you're thirsty."

Anakin keeps silent as Obi-Wan walks him down to the cafeteria. His eyes nearly pop from his face as he drinks in the Jedi Temple, despite its lack of gold. He runs his little fingers over the red carpet, and his mouth drops open as the sculptures of long dead Jedi Knights loom into view.

Other Padawans walk by, children around Anakin's age. They glance at him curiously, whispering to each other as they hurry away, their footsteps thudding across the carpet. In comparison, Anakin seems strange, despite his new Jedi clothing and Padawan's haircut. He stands apart from them, a little taller, his eyes a little brighter, his presence immeasurably stronger.

They reach the white-walled cafeteria on the bottom floor. Food warms under lights across the long serving bar. Obi-Wan spoons steaming mundi and gurent onto his plate, while Anakin piles his plate three times higher than Obi-Wan's. He seems so pleased about it that Obi-Wan says nothing as they sit down to eat.

"Have you always been a mechanic?" Obi-Wan asks after a few bites of his dinner. The mundi is a little dry and tough to chew—it sat beneath the lights too long.

Anakin swallows a rather large mouthful of food before answering. "Always. Ever since I can remember. My Mom says I learned how to use a hydrospanner before I learned how to walk."

Obi-Wan chases the gurent around his plate, creating an swirled pattern in his gravy. "It's rare for a Jedi to have that gift." A part of him wonders if Anakin would be better off apprenticed to the Gearsmaster, while another part insists that he must train Anakin as Qui-Gon asked.

"Hunh. Are Jedi good pilots, then?"

"Not usually."

"I guess that makes me different, then?"

"Apparently."

Being different is one of the few things Obi-Wan and Anakin have in common.

. . .

Anakin does not think in rules and patterns. Anakin does not think. Anakin feels.

Anakin is twelve when he completes his lightsaber. As young as he is, he keeps Obi-Wan sweating at every practice, his unorthodox maneuvers and raw power throwing Obi-Wan's stolid form off-balance more often than not. Yet, Anakin follows a predictable pattern, and he reveals his emotions in every swing of his blade. Obi-Wan wins every time, if only barely. But one day, he will lose, and he wakes up every morning wondering if today will be that day.

At thirteen, Anakin goes down to the garage to help the Gearsmaster build a new speeder. She declares him the finest mechanic in the entire galaxy. Silver streaks her dark hair now as she stomps across the hangar, accusing Obi-Wan of stealing her rightful apprentice. He just smiles and wonders if she remembers who he is.

When Anakin is fourteen, the Jedi Council sells his starship designs to an unnamed buyer. Though they do not tell Obi-Wan the amount, the profits triple Jedi funds at the First Intergalactic Bank of the Republic. When a droid arrives to collect Anakin's designs, Obi-Wan stares at the flimsiplast in Anakin's hands. Every perfectly executed line in the ornate sketch needles Obi-Wan.

By fifteen, Anakin's bronzed skin is flawless, even in its imperfections, his blue eyes sultry, his legs long and athletic. Anakin's lips hold unspoken promise, the curve of his neck an invitation. Obi-Wan cannot recall meeting anyone else more beautiful. Though he would never dream of taking advantage of his apprentice whilst awake, he dreams of it at night. He is not the only one. Every step they take away from the Temple becomes a battle to preserve Anakin's innocence—an uphill battle that Obi-Wan quickly loses to a doe-eyed brunette on Corellia.

Obi-Wan quickly loses track of Anakin's accomplishments. Every day, Anakin seems to do something new and unusual. The Jedi Council stares at him in wonder, and Masters congratulate him every time he walks down the hall. Chancellor Palpatine invites him to dinner almost every weekend, though he fails to extend Obi-Wan the same invitation. Obi-Wan stands to the side, as he always does, holding something pathetic and hungry.

There are certain things that Obi-Wan can do that Anakin cannot, at least. Anakin never wins a game of sabacc, his rigged console no match for Obi-Wan's wit. While Anakin plays the sitra-lyre, Obi-Wan memorizes all the notes. Anakin has few names for the parts he plugs into his machines, but Obi-Wan knows them all. Anakin's paintings are beautiful, multi-layered masterpieces, but it is Obi-Wan who mixes the gitra-paint colors for him.

Obi-Wan pales to invisibility beside his apprentice, but he does not let himself wallow in the sweet satisfaction of envy. He must be better than that. Instead, he focuses on ways to make Anakin even better, to ferret out Anakin's lingering anger and frustration, to remind him of the Jedi Way. Even if Obi-Wan's words are sometimes sharper than he intends and Anakin storms away in hurt, he comforts himself that his guidance will lead Anakin to true perfection. He is the track that the Chosen One will ride towards his destiny.

. . .

Obi-Wan will not realize how much Anakin envies him until they meet on Mustafar.


End file.
